


en mil pedazos

by 2davidbeckham3



Series: nunca fui gulliver [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No wives/No kids, Implied Relationships, Light Angst, Multi, Too Many Cameo Appearances to Tag, removable heart au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 11:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11988906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/2davidbeckham3
Summary: Home is where the heart is.(A heart isn’t a home.Sometimes, a home isn’t enough.)[How to Live Without a Heart: Step Two.]





	en mil pedazos

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of a series. You don't really have to read part one, just know that in this universe people live without hearts and that's okay.
> 
> Mostly a chronicling of Raúl's life through the years with an added twist. Smatterings of Raúl/Mori and Raúl/Guti. (Sorry for the really long part about the Camp Nou, Bernabeú love is in the first part of the series.)
> 
> This part is unbeta'd, for them most part, so all grammar mistakes are mine! Shoutout to my friend that doesn't read fic, but I make her read my stuff anyways so she can encourage me to continue.I just have a lot of feelings about finding homes in unexpected places.

Being on the senior team is difficult.

 

No, not because he’s facing pressure like never before, stifling expectations that make it hard to breathe, the need to be perfect week in and week out. Raúl knew about that when he first picked up a ball.

 

No, it’s suddenly noticing people’s vacant expressions when trudging into an early morning practice and covering unexplained absences to games by sudden back injuries and colds.

 

Raúl never saw it on himself, but he knows what it means.

 

_(Hierro pulls him aside and praises his silence, telling him he’ll be a good captain someday._

_Raúl’s cheeks burn and he’s not sure if it’s out of shame or pride.)_

 

 

*

 

 

It’s the same trust exercise in a different jersey when Raúl notices. He reflexively jerks out of Pep’s grasp and stares in wide-eyed surprise.

 

Pep simply raises his eyebrows and gives him an amused smile. “Let’s talk in private,” he says like it’s not a big deal and, maybe, it isn’t. Maybe Raúl’s grown accustomed to silence that doesn't seem much like emptiness anymore.

 

“It’s not mine,” Pep casually admits after convincing Raúl to sit in the empty space beside him. The bed’s too soft for Raúl’s liking, but Pep looks comfortable enough, lying in bed freshly showered and relaxed.

 

Raúl envies him. His back hurts from sitting ramrod straight, sparking up old pains and new as he wishes he could act relaxed, even though he was anything but. He imagines Pep’s staring up at him, but he’s stubbornly avoiding his gaze, tracing invisible patterns against Pep’s wrist; the skin’s soft and smooth against his fingertips, deceivingly innocent.

 

He presses his fingers down and the faint, slow beat, _thump thump,_ seems no different than the ones Raúl’s felt before. “Do I even want to know what you do in La Masía?” It’s a bad joke, probably, but Raúl looks up at Pep with a timid smile, anyways. He’s used to joking about it now, everyone in the dressing room throws the word ‘heartless’ around like it means nothing at all. Raúl supposes it doesn’t.

 

His fingertips skim Pep’s forearm now, a small respite in the heavy silence in the room. “Do you know where yours is?” Raúl asks in what he hopes is a casual tone. _(It’s all pretend. Raúl’s voice wavered when he spoke, hands trembling.)_

 

“Yes,” Pep admits in a small voice, like it he just revealed a secret. Maybe he did.

 

Pep’s skin is cold against his palm while he lets Pep’s trust sit heavy in his stomach for a few quiet breaths. Then, he’s emboldened by the silence and he’s pressing, _bruising,_ testing to see how much pressure it took to feel the foreign life pulsating through Pep’s veins.

 

“Stay,” Pep’s voice cuts through the thick air as steady as his pulse. “It’s nice not being alone.”

 

Raúl’s not sure who Pep’s referring to, but he’s right, either way. His lips curl back into a toothy grin. “Yes, yes, it is.”

 

 

*

 

 

When Raúl wakes up he realizes that he’s not alone.

 

It’s not a trophy in his bed like he half expected, gleaming silver shining under the morning sun.

 

Mori’s lying on his stomach, sun-kissed, bedsheet half-hazardly tangled around his waist, the number fifteen on his back on full display. A soft snore brings a smile to Raúl’s face.

 

There’s a pounding in his head and the taste of last night’s champagne still on his lips, but nothing more. Still, that didn’t mean that Fernando Morientes couldn’t be the one.

 

It’s the first time Raúl asks that someone has his heart – and the last time he hopes.

 

_(It’s before practice and—_

_“Cáceres, huh.” Raúl laughs, brushing his hand through Mori’s hair trying to make it cover his eyes. “Does this mean I can call you_ mi girasol _, then?”_

  
  
_Mori snorts and Raúl can feel his eyelashes brushing butterfly kisses against his palm. “Si eres mi sol.”_

_It’s the first time he hopes.)_

 

 

*

 

 

Raúl trips over Iker and causes them to tumble down onto the rare Madrid snow. He laughs when Iker’s cold nose brushes against his forehead. Iker sniffles before letting out a chuckle of his own, wheezing slightly as he tries to breathe with Raúl’s weight on top of him.

 

His chin is digging uncomfortably into Iker’s neck and he feels the zipper of Iker’s jacket digging into his wrist, the outline of Iker’s hand against his stomach. Then, realization hits. “When did you find it?” Raúl asks, his tone a mixture of hurt and surprise. 

 

There are red indents on the back of his arm when Raúl leans back, but they’re not what make him freeze. There’s a bitter smile, a _snarl,_ really, on Iker’s face that doesn’t match him at all. “It hurts,” he bites out. Like he can convince Raúl that it’s not worth it. Like he’s convinced himself that it’s not worth it.

 

 _(Raúl recognizes the look on Iker’s face, he knows._ He knows. _It’s all pretend.)_

 

 

*

 

 

One day, Sergio walks into the dressing room one day looking lost and younger than Raúl ever imagined he could.

                   

_(Hierro would be disappointed of him, but Raúl grabs Sergio by the arm and tugs him close._

_“I’ll help you in any way that I can,” he assures, lips nearly brushing Sergio’s ear. He’s close enough to hear Sergio’s shaky gasp, feel the twitch of fingers against his back._

_His tone is firm, but he’s thankful Sergio can’t see the angry flush on his cheeks._

_His promise feels a lot like a lie.)_

 

 

*

 

 

Raúl dreams about it, sometimes, the familiar _thump thump thump_ that he must have felt when he was younger. It seems more like a figment of his imagination with every passing day.

 

Guti knows about his struggle, or, at least, it seems like he does, always waking him up from the dream in the dark of the night with a whisper he won’t repeat, arms tangled around him like he’d claimed the space in Raúl’s empty chest.

 

 _“Ay, Jose María,”_ Raúl usually murmurs, teasing, reveling in the press of the smile Guti tries to hide against his shoulder. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

 

_(“Gladly,” Guti would sometimes reply, digging the heel of his palm into Raúl’s chest and Raúl can almost taste a heartbeat when he gasps. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go.)_

*

 

_(It’s not that Raúl feels at home here, the jeers thrown his way are reminders, enough._

_There’d always been something in the Camp Nou, beyond the colors that lined the pitch and their rivalry that brought out shades of something deeper, of something older. There’s something in the air, something about barreling past defenders that are, in a literal sense, in two places at once that has little to do about football._

_There’s simply something comforting about the forbidden knowledge that sits heavily in his breast._

_For ninety minutes, Raúl doesn’t feel alone.)_

 

With Iniesta’s jersey swinging from his shoulder and a bounce in his step after talking to Xavi, he lets the thought cross through his mind, not for the first time in his life, that he wouldn’t be surprised if his heart was beating somewhere in the stands of the Camp Nou. He knows its secrets, after all; it’s the stadium he’s silenced and staked a selfish claim.

“What am I gonna do now that you’ve stolen my heart, Puyol?” Raúl calls out when he reaches the tunnel. It’s a bad joke, but Puyi lets himself be pulled into a hug and allows the slightly too-hard press of Raúl’s thumb against his neck. His lips brush the shell of Puyol’s ear, “Tell me whose it is,” Raul whispers into and it falls short of a joke, bone-wary exhaustion pushing him to speak. It’s _not_ a joke, but Raúl’s tired. He demands. He _wants_ —

 

“I’ll find yours,” Puyi replies instead of answering, and Raúl doesn’t need to hear the earnest timbre of his voice to believe him.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s in Germany that Raúl wishes his heart could belong to a number, but immediately takes it back.

 

The seven is on Villa’s back with a World Cup to its name.

 

_(A number can’t belong to Raúl just like it didn’t belong to Zidane, Baggio, or Ronaldinho._

 

_But, still, that doesn’t stop the spiteful realization that he never got to ask Villa if he preferred the number twenty-one)_

 

 

*                 

 

Still, he dreams.

 

_(El Bernabéu isn’t pulsating, but it’s a close thing. When Raúl raises his arms to touch it, it’s like silk slipping between his fingers.)_

 

 

*

 

 

He’s on the Staten Island Ferry in late fall watching his breath for clouds against the gray sky.

 

Raúl stares into the stoic face of the Statue of Liberty, blinking away tears brought on by the wind, hands balled into fists in a futile attempt to bring back warmth to his hands. He decides against biting his tongue and asks “Do you have it?”

 

Out of anyone, she would know. She would have it in her tucked breast with all the others she’s been given and all the ones she’s stolen, plucked from steel beams and concrete.

 

_(Her response is lost in the wind, but Raúl’s lips curl back into a small smile because there’s hope humming through his veins warmed by brass fire.)_

 

 

*

 

 

_(Instead of ‘hello,’ Villa greets him with “I don’t know what to do with my heart.”_

_It’s a problem Raúl wishes he had, so his response is dry and short, “Why are you asking me?”_

_Villa’s responding glare is mostly hurt instead of angry. It makes Raúl let out a sigh, before swallowing his pride and remembering to be sympathetic. “Give it away.”_

_Villa’s lips turn down into an angry scowl, “This isn’t a joke, Raúl,” he grits out._

_Raúl knows that better than most._

_He gives Villa a pointed look, “Give it away, David.”)_

 

On the television, David Villa’s blowing kisses up to the seats high in right field and Raúl allows himself to smile. Villa’s never been subtle. Raúl allows himself to be proud – he was finally right, even if the heart he put a hand on wasn’t his own.

 

 

*

 

 

Raúl gets a call at 3:04 in the morning that has him grumbling at Puyi while listening to the other man ramble until he’s properly awake.  
  
He’s painfully aware of the sheets scraping against his skin, a reminder to buy a higher thread count, next time, and the loud hum of his air conditioner drowning out the sounds of the city streets.  
  
It’s in the dark of a night that Raúl realizes he might not know how to live with a heart anymore.

 

_(Nevertheless, He’s Raúl González Blanco and a promise was made._

_It’s destiny.)_

**Author's Note:**

> \- What's with FC Barcelona and their switching of hearts? Do Captains just pass down Joan Gamper's? Are hearts taken out in la Masía on purpose? Who knows. [Shhh](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJDk4olnkgQ)  
> \- Shout out to [this](http://imgur.com/eNuBw.jpg) picture (that was everywhere when I stalked LJ) and[this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1934079) primer to opening my eyes to what is Raul/Mori and providing more info about his life, including the arms raised in el Bernabeu for his delayed "testimonial match" (Sunflower ref because Cáceres, where Mori is from, is famous for them, but also play on words because _si eres mi sol_ is "if you are my sun" and _sí, eres mi sol_ "yes, you're my sun").  
>  \- Also shout out to that one prompt I submitted in the Spring Fling and me [recycling the picture.](http://www.mundodeportivo.com/r/GODO/MD/p3/ContraPortada/Imagenes/2015/10/15/Recortada/MUNDODEPORTIVO_G_7137902842-kHmG--911x683@MundoDeportivo-Web.jpg)  
> \- (Spot the sneaky Lucho reference because I'm trash)  
> \- There's a picture of David Villa blowing kisses to the crowd in Yankee Stadium that I will find at one point or another
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback is appreciated and received with a lot of love.


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